


The Double-Blind

by diversionary_tactician



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Baltar Administration, Caprica Resistance, Character Study, Double Agents, Drug Abuse, Gen, Internal Conflict, New Caprica, POV First Person, President Baltar, Prompt Fic, Resistance, day in the life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-03
Updated: 2011-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diversionary_tactician/pseuds/diversionary_tactician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have been spotted. Reckless, I tell myself. Another ten minutes and I would have been able to slip out undetected. I turn to face my enemy . . . Momentarily I wonder if he’s made me, and his inaction is his consent. The tiny act of rebellion of a tiny man."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Double-Blind

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I write for my own entertainment and education, and derive no financial benefit. NBC Universal owns the copyrights and trademarks for Battlestar Galactica. I do not hold any copyrights or trademarks associated with Battlestar Galactica or the characters, setting, or story lines depicted therein. However, I imagine those that do would appreciate your patronage.

The presidential office smelled musky, the eternal stink of sweat clinging to the air like a wet towel. Baltar is still lying asleep in bed with women whose faces I can never remember. If they have names I don’t know them, but I find it hard to feel remorse when Baltar doesn’t know them either.

I begin the preparations for the day. The presidential office has all the best supplies, including real coffee. The Cylons strive to keep the president happy, buying his compliance with all the comforts of a home that no longer exists. I try not to feel resentment as I scoop ground beans into the coffee maker. My body betrays me, and the smell makes me salivate as it brews. Baltar would permit me the liberty of a cup if I so desired, however the thought of the look on Galen’s face if he could see my indulgence gives me pause. Being a traitor to my kind should have its advantages. It would, but my conscience does not permit me to enjoy them. It’s not the kind of man I am.

Baltar sleeps well into the day while I complete an endless barrage of meaningless paperwork. I keep a vacant expression on my face, pretending not to listen to the machines spinning their plans like a fragile web, praying that they may catch a member of the resistance. They overlook my presence entirely. Provided that everything gets completed according to plan, I might as well not be there. It is better that way. Some of the conversation may be of use to the resistance. Years of dealing with communications and plotting jumps on Galactica have taught me how to retain large quantities of information in my memory. The precious coordinates rest safely in my mind. I don’t dare write them down, not yet, anyway. My caution alone has allowed me to come this far.

When the president finally stirs I stand. The meaningless pomp and ceremony threatens to turn my stomach, but I keep a casually neutral expression on my face. I am a practiced liar. It is perhaps my one true, gods-given talent. I have never been strong. My sidearm had become an instrument more for show than use. Other than in training, I’d never even fired it. I was little more than a voice that the computer didn’t possess and now I didn’t even have a computer to speak for anymore. Instead I have a man, a man with a lump of metal where is soul should be. Baltar pulls on the suit from the previous day and a meeting quickly commences, between the machines that are our enemy and the president who assists them in the annihilation of our race. I act as secretary, taking minutes. 

In June there will be a banquet. Humans who have aided the Cylons will be invited to attend. This is an effort to gain the public’s favor. However, the invitation is coming from the same dictators who threatened children to force compliance. Privately I doubt that there is anything to be gained. However, I do not handle public policy, neither does Baltar for that matter. I am creating a seating chart. The work is an irritation, and Baltar’s demeaning commentary on my execution of the task does nothing to change my feelings on the subject. I wish for perhaps the thousandth time since we landed on this rock that I could kill him. Around dinnertime Baltar loses interest in berating me and I see him take a little white pill with the fresh meal that has been prepared for him.

My opportunity to slip out and make the drop is quickly approaching. In half an hour he will be out cold. My absence will not be noted and my alibi will be solid. After twenty minutes have passed and Baltar’s eyes have slid shut I write down the coordinates for the trap and move to slip out of the office. 

A voice at my back forces me to halt in my tracks and a slow chill creeps up my spine. “Where do you think you’re going?” Baltar demands. I have been spotted. Reckless, I tell myself. Another ten minutes and I would have been able to slip out undetected. I turn to face my enemy. A smile is fixed on my face, and the effort of it alone seems to drain whatever reserves I had. “A shipment of goods came in.” I motion casually to the coffee maker. “We’re all out,” I offer, by way of explanation. It’s a lie. The tin is half-full. I am counting on the assumption that Baltar hasn’t touched the machine himself in at least two weeks. The packet of documents is inside my suit jacket causing visible folds. If Baltar wants the truth it should be easy enough for a man of his intellect to ascertain. He pauses for a long moment. I wonder if he is sizing me up or merely too drugged to comprehend my words. “Yes…yes…coffee, of course” he answers. Momentarily I wonder if he’s made me, and his inaction is his consent. The tiny act of rebellion of a tiny man. As I set foot outside a bitter laugh nearly escapes my throat. No, there is nothing human left in Gaius Baltar, no rebellion however small or however private.

As I walk through the settlement I keep a sharp eye out. I have no doubt that someone may make an attempt on my life. I’d deserve it. I place the packet of papers into the red metal drawer, plastic wrapped around it so that the precious information will not become useless in the drenching rain. I pat the dog and flip the bowl over with my foot. I find that talking to the resistance is easier than going to the gods for forgiveness. The Lords of Kobol seem to have gone, left with what little remained of the fleet. Anyway, it’s not the gods who are dying out there in the settlement. No, better I make my amends to the people.


End file.
